"This is comfortable," she said, leaning her head wearily on her hand; "to talk to a—a friend who understands, and who will not scold. But you can't understand unless I tell you everything; and Timothy himself, after all, would be the first to explain to you that it isn't my tears nor my kisses, nor my consolation he wants. You didn't think so really, did you?"
John hesitated, remembering Sir Timothy's words, but she did not wait for an answer.
"Yes," she said calmly, "he wishes me to be in my proper place. It would be a scandal if I did such a remarkable thing as to leave home on any pretext at such a moment. Only by being extraordinarily respectable and dignified can we live down the memory of his father's unconventional behaviour. I must remember my position. I must smell my salts, and put my feet up on the sofa, and be moderately overcome during the crisis, and moderately thankful to the Almighty when it's over, so that every one may hear how admirably dear Lady Mary behaved. And when I am reading the Times to him during his convalescence," she cried, wringing her hands, "Peter—Peter will be thousands of miles away, marching over the veldt to his death."
"You make very sure of Peter's death," said John, quietly.
"Oh yes," said Lady Mary, listlessly. "He's an only son. It's always the only sons who die. I've remarked that."
"You make very sure of Sir Timothy's recovery."
"Oh yes," Lady Mary said again. "He's a very strong man."
Something ominous in John's face and voice attracted her attention.
"Why do you look like that?"
"Because," said John, slowly—"you understand I'm treating you as a woman of courage—Dr. Blundell told me just now that—the odds are against him."